


Dichotomy

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 09:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1812796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You keep doin’ that, ’m gonna fall asleep.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dichotomy

**Author's Note:**

> A quick mini-fill for this [Kinkmeme](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org) prompt:
> 
> "Porthos is a big and very solidly built guy. His lover quite enjoys giving him massages just to hear the lovely noises he makes and feel the strength of his body and muscles go to goo.
> 
> Someone other than Aramis would be great just because we don't see much of that but I also love Aramis/Porthos if a filler really wants that pairing!"

As soon as the door was closed, Porthos sank heavily onto his bed with a weary groan, wincing as he rolled his shoulders in a vain attempt to loosen his overtaxed muscles. His shirt was plastered to his chest and back, and he plucked at the offending fabric, pulling it away from heated, sweat-dampened skin.

Athos, leaning back against the doorjamb, his thumbs hooked casually into his belt, watched the display with a level, impassive gaze, appearing completely unmoved by Porthos’s suffering. His expression remained unchanged even when Porthos looked up at him with a pitiful grimace.

“Do not look to me for sympathy,” Athos intoned coolly. “You did not need to take on half the regiment just to prove a point.”

“Gotta maintain my reputation,” Porthos replied flippantly. “Besides, did more than just prove a point, didn’t I?” With the quick flash of a triumphant grin, he gave the purse in his hand a shake, making the coins within clink. Athos merely blinked, still unimpressed.

“You do not have to accept every wager.”

That brought a frown to Porthos’s brow, clearly wondering why Athos seemed so against his acceptance of the challenge presented to him that afternoon. “You doubted me?”

“Of course not.” A hint of emotion finally crept into Athos’s voice as he made his assertion; his belief in Porthos’s ability to best a dozen of their fellow Musketeers in an impromptu wrestling match had never wavered, but he hadn’t considered it necessary for Porthos to validate the claim.

Unfortunately, as soon as Aramis had become involved – loudly proclaiming the impossibility of Porthos being defeated – and odds proposed and disputed, the prospect of Porthos turning down the challenge had vanished.

It hadn’t taken long for Porthos to claim his victory, felling each opponent in turn with an ease that had brought a smile to Athos’s lips that refused to be suppressed. He might have voiced his disapproval of such a needless show of strength, but he had nevertheless been impressed.

His position as Porthos’s superior, however, meant he couldn’t be seen to condone such behaviour, even if he had no real quarrel with the men letting off steam in a controlled environment. It was preferable to the usual methods of picking fights with the Red Guards.

“I do not like to see you bring such unnecessary suffering down upon your own head.”

“Something you are never guilty of, of course.”

Athos’s face shuttered and Porthos immediately regretted his rash retort. He bowed his head in contrition, breaking contact with Athos’s suddenly blank gaze. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

There were vast and complex differences between the reasons Porthos had agreed to a contest that would undoubtedly leave him fatigued and worn, and those that led to Athos waking most mornings to a head hazy with the effects of too much wine, but did they not both fundamentally amount to the same thing?

More importantly, each man equally disliked witnessing the consequences of such self-inflicted and avoidable pain in the other – of that, Athos was certain – and it wasn’t right that he should expect something of his friends that he was incapable of adhering to himself.

Finally stirring from his place by the door, Athos crossed the room, pausing briefly to wet a cloth in a pitcher of water. Porthos only raised his head when he felt the cool press of the damp cloth against the back of his neck, a query dying on his lips when he saw the softness that now lay in Athos’s eyes.

Athos wiped the sweat from his nape, and when he tugged up the hem of the grimy shirt, Porthos obediently raised his arms to ease its removal. Then Athos was kneeling on the bed behind him, fingers digging into abused muscles with a vigour that was almost painful but that instantly began to unravel the coiled tension.

The groan that rumbled up from the bottom of Porthos’s chest seemed to reverberate though Athos, too, resonating in the pit of his stomach. His hands didn’t falter, however, and he diligently continued to knead each muscle of Porthos’s back and shoulders, working deft fingers along their well-defined lines, feeling them gradually ease beneath his touch.

As the sounds from Porthos subsided to a series of contented sighs, Athos gentled his actions until his fingertips were brushing over Porthos’s skin with only the lightest pressure, tracing the lines of old scars and sensing the latent power beneath.

“You keep doin’ that, ’m gonna fall asleep.” The words sounded like they were drifting up from the edge of sleep already.

Athos stilled his hands, but left them resting against Porthos’s back. “You are recovered then?”

“Yeah.” A languorous grin was evident in Porthos’s voice as he breathed his reply, leaning back into Athos’s touch for a moment before, with supreme effort, he roused himself enough to turn and face Athos. “Never told me you could do that,” he admonished, the heat of the grievance tempered by the tranquil contentment in his half-lidded eyes.

Taken aback by the effect such a simple therapy had had on his friend, a pleasantly astonished smile tugged at one corner of Athos’s mouth as he hitched one eyebrow in modest apology, almost regretting that he had never offered this service to the big man before.

“I suppose now I will have to do it more often,” he sighed in a pretence at tolerant resignation, imagining the inevitable requests of the future.

“Yep!” The brazen agreement was instantaneous, then Porthos’s features settled into a tender smile as one large hand gently cupped Athos’s jaw, the rough pad of a thumb brushing over his lips. “Thank you.”

The disparity between this gentle treatment and the violent power Athos had witnessed that afternoon left him at a loss for words, affection swelling almost overwhelmingly in his chest, but he was saved from having to articulate a response by strong arms drawing him close and lips capturing his own with that same incongruous tenderness.


End file.
